


Just our hands clasped so tight

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, George Blagden how dare you, Grantaire put the guitar down, Hurt/Comfort, I will follow you into the dark, Jesus that Jesus hair..., M/M, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Reincarnation, Role Reversal, Sad, Sex, found it funny didn't you?, mentions of depression, stop ruining our lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:28:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every drop is welcome, poisoning every fiber of his being, filling each vein and cell, drowning every memory from every life and dimension in an ocean of alcohol. He needs to forget before going home. For once, he needs to die without aching. </p><p><em>Good for nothing, fool.</em> </p><p>“I was born to follow you,” he whispers, his head resting on Enjolras’ chest, feeling the heartbeat which is more vivid and real than ever. “Will you permit me?”<br/>*<br/>After the first time, Grantaire falls asleep and wakes up again and again, only to find it's always too late and he's been left behind.</p><p>When heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied, he will seek for permission to follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just our hands clasped so tight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [George Blagden](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=George+Blagden), [GrantaireandHisBottle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantaireandHisBottle/gifts), [angelbucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelbucky/gifts).



> I know that you probably don't care to know that...  
> But it means something to me, so I'll tell you, alright?  
> I spent the couple past days reading beautiful reincarnation fics and I decided to give it a shot even though I knew it would be nothing compared to what's written out there...  
> So yesterday morning -when I still had a life- I wrote this. I was torn between two songs: Left Behind and Follow You Into the Dark. I went for the second one because I adore this song. I WROTE THIS. 12 HOURS AGO.  
> And THEN, my amazing friend Grantaireandhisbottle told me about the song.  
> In the same fuckin' day.  
> More ironic than modern day R's graphic t-shirts, isn't it?  
> Which has made me very very upset both with Blagden and with me and with coincidences okay? I'm torn in every possible way and I needed to share this, so please bear with me.
> 
>  _Of course_ after swimming out of my lake of tears I returned and edited this, thus the scene based on Blagden's lyrics.
> 
> References: I will follow you into the dark  
> Left Behind

He remembers the first time. He will never be permitted to forget. It’s the most beautiful curse and the most horrible blessing, and he knows it will never leave him alone.

He’s always afraid to wake up because that would mean he’d drift out of the oblivion he so eagerly seeked for. He’s always afraid to wake up because he remembers that waking up means to be hit violently by morning light and immediately seeing it perish before his blind eyes. The first time he woke up, surrounded by the smell of gunpowder and the fire of a red flag, he was Icarus, and Apollo, the God of Sun was about to perish, the light was about to be darkened.

So he followed him, his wings of wax were about to melt but he did not mind because his eyes were the sea and the Sun was before them, he had been told to go neither near the sea nor the sun but he needed his eyes to see, and they needed the light.

Their hands clasped so tight and they saw no blinding light because they _became_ the light, infectious and burning through red lips that upturned into a smile of acceptance as Icarus was allowed to walk alongside the golden rays of locks surrounding the serene, pale face. Those fingers were warm against his own and he was permitted to commit the sweetest hubris, because damn, Icarus knew what he was doing, he knew it was only right to be wrong, he knew he could only live for a moment, while expiring, the redemption of the darkness which always prevailed upon his breathing days.

It was that hubris, that abominable illusion that a blind man could touch such a glorious flare of light which made that first time be the last one.

He knew he’d never rest until he could follow him into the dark again, full, grown, faithful, believing. He tried to, he struggled to follow him, but Apollo did not accept followers anymore. He had to reach his grace, to become an equal but he knew he never would, he couldn’t allow himself to, he was just a shadow, the Patroclus living alongside Achilles, he wasn’t born to exist, he wasn’t born to believe. He was born to follow, but he is not permitted, not anymore.

More times follow. He learns his purpose. He finds his cause. He wakes up again and again, in a different body but the same man, seeking oblivion inside a foggy bottle, stammering and slurring sarcastic remarks, he finds his friends but he is always the skeptic, again and again. He never stops disappointing him, it’s dominos and cards and wine and absinthe and chapped, cynical lips, which sometimes earn the privilege to be pressed upon those fiery, passionate ones but that doesn’t change things because his breath stinks of alcohol, he’s nothing but a mere disappointment, it’s all about absinthe, vodka, tequila, and beer, mistresses and a red waistcoat he’ll wear to impress him, then a blazer, a parka, a denim jacket, always red and always wrong because red doesn’t suit him. Red is for the Fire, for the Sun, never for the follower, never for the ice.

But there is nothing he can do to find salvation but follow. He tries so hard to find him, in America, in England, in China and in Greece. He falls asleep and wakes up again and again, in battlefields, trenches, cafés, in deserted villages blown up by an uprising, in smoking cities flattened by tanks, in protests for peace, he sees him with flowers on his glorious golden locks, he is a young student behind the door of a polytechnic school when the tanks arrive, he is a hippie, a soldier with a heavy helmet on his youthful head, he is a protester in the barricades of Phillipines, he rises against Nazism, he throws his fist in the air and shouts, face always serene, graceful, as if he’s already perished but has been granted these final moments to stir the faithless, as if Death and him are two old friends, he is the Light, but Darkness loves him dearly. Darkness deserves him but Grantaire isn’t Darkness, even though he wishes that he was, even though he pretends to be. He never again reaches him, never again gets to touch him so that they can finish together.

Everytime he knows from the moment he first wakes up, ever since he is a little kid. The nightmares are frequent, the images of barricades and guns aimed upon him vivid, he learns to live with them, to grow up and to sense when it’s coming. He learns to search for him, sometimes he doesn’t even have to. Sometimes their friends are all there, some others only few of them, but it’s always about him.

He never manages to follow him again and that’s the most horrible punishment for the hubris he committed, because he stays back, feeling his heart being ripped in a million pieces every single minute that passes. He’s a drunken Pylades who sees his Orestes fading, again and again, without ever being permitted to follow.

He sees the bayonet that pierces him, only a gamin, in 1848. He’s there when he’s diagnosed with tuberculosis in 1870 but he witnesses him fighting until the end. He hears the bullets which pierce his chest in 1916. He listens to the commands in 1942, he finds him after he’s choked on his own blood, having fought with the cops in 1969 and he watches him fade from HIV in 1988. He can’t reach him, he never can reach him. He’s either tied on a chair, pinned against a greasy wall, he’s either sleeping or rising after it’s too late, he’s healthy and drunk and silent, he watches, he listens and he dies again and again only a little too late, after dying a million times more on the inside, after screaming and crying and kneeling on the floor, fingers wrapped around his dark unruly curls, or silently staring outside a window, cradling a bottle, or losing his mind and ending up in a white room, or maybe hunting them down to kill them all. He never succeeds. For as long as Grantaire remembers his lives, after the first time, he is always kneeled in a cemetery, either in a green velvet jacket, a leather or a denim one, an aquamarine t-shirt, an olive blouse or a khaki army coat, in front of a marble tombstone with such words engraved on it: “There is nothing to be said to those who have already left.”

And there is nothing to be said to those left behind.

*

That time he wakes up different. That time he decides to perish first. He has to be the mortal one, he has to be Castor so that he doesn’t witness Pollux’s terrible ending.

He is diagnosed with depression when he’s a little child. He learns to keep the nightmares and visions to himself. He knows what is bound to happen this time, he has practiced it so much that he almost envisions the next step before he actually places his foot on the ground. His parents try to help him find a hobby. Pencils and paintbrushes instantly become his best friends, alongside bottles of liquor which he’ll cradle tenderly on his chest from a very young age. When his arms feel empty he’ll learn how to wrap them around a guitar, allowing the scent of the wood to intoxicate him more than vodka itself. He finds Jehan in primary school and Eponine gets rid of the school bullies for him when she’s fifteen and he’s a senior. Feuilly is the one to walk towards him and offer him his paint stained hand when he gets accepted in art University, and it doesn't take long for the others to appear.

It’s different this time. _He’s_ different this time. Always the same grace and beauty, the same Sun on his hair, blood stained red lips and rosy cheeks, white teeth and elegant nose, burning eyes which make him feel ashamed and alive and already dead. His handshake is firm as always, radiating the warmth his frozen soul is searching for, causing his heart to hammer violently against his ribcage, yet his words are different, even more distant, less accepting, unusually cold, his glance prematurely disappointed and the tone of his passionate voice already disapproving.

This time he has to finish this before it finishes him. This is how it’ll end, this is how he’ll free himself from those horrible chains.

But he takes some time first. He’s willing to put an end to this but for now he’s planning to savor him a little more, eye him from the corner of the room, speak more cynically and sharply than ever, spend the nights dreaming of the kisses and touches they shared before, never the first time, but always the others.

And then one day he laughs, he mocks, he fails, he disappoints. Once again. Those burning eyes meet with his icy blue ones in a fiery collision. “You’re good for nothing, fool,” he spits.

He’s different. He had always been disappointed, but he’d also been patient, fierce but gentle, trusting and accepting.

His heart almost stops and he knows it’s time.

He waits until his friends leave from the Musain and he drinks more and more, poisoning every fiber of his being, filling every vein, every cell, trying to drown every memory from every life and dimension in an ocean of alcohol. He needs to forget before going home. For once, he needs to die without aching.

_Good for nothing, fool._

He drinks one shot after the other, bottle following bottle , chuckling madly, hysterically between them, slurring hoarsely, his head throbbing and spinning violently, his whole body trembling and hurting, everything is blurry in the dim light of the bar, every sound fuzzy, people chattering, glasses clinking together, images passing before his blue eyes, barricades and camps and trenches and hospitals, cafés, guns, a window, a red flag, a hand, long, slender, bloodied fingers, the same ones which wave dismissively in the air, the same ones which clench into a fist, fighting for freedom, a freedom he longs for and a freedom he’ll never find if he doesn’t forget, if he doesn’t run away, if he doesn’t cowardly perish before _him_.

Cowardice… he has a vague ambition in that direction.

He stammers in the street, trying to return home, ready to put an end to all of this. His whole body is shaking as he kneels on the pavement and throws up, but before he can stand back he knows that strong arms are wrapped around his body, supporting his weight, and warm hands are brushing the clammy locks away from his forehead.

He wakes up with a rhythmical breath brushing the nape of his neck, an arm wrapped around his waist, a steady heartbeat pounding against his back. It’s _him_ and he’s holding him in a dark room, on a soft mattress which isn’t his own, choking hoarse words between tears of anger. _Coward. Good for nothing. Fool. How dare you. Stay. Not going anywhere. Be strong for once. Bloody fool._

_Believe._

And just like that, he begs him to believe. He’s never done in the past, he’s never tried to change him, but now they’re curled together in a bed underneath warm blankets and he’s begging him to believe, stroking the damp hair off his burning forehead and holding his wrists wrapped between his fingers and he knows for once that the other man has acknowledged his existence, he has acknowledged it by feeling the frantic pulse against his grip and he tries to get away, but he’s holding him tightly, promising he’ll show him, he’ll show him how to hold, how to believe, how to help him live and live together.

The time for sleep is now, there’s nothing to cry about, because they’re holding each other now and they’ll hold each other soon.

In the blackest of rooms.

He still is a coward. But now he isn’t brave enough to let him go, he isn’t brave enough to leave so soon, not when the light is still radiating from the Sun, inviting him closer. He is a coward, a dark, drunken coward who keeps seeking for oblivion, but for the very first time Enjolras needs him by his side, Enjolras asks for his presence and Enjolras fights for him.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters against his skin again and again, his burning lips barely touching him but never being pressed upon him. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, and it’s wrong because the God of Light cannot apologize, he cannot regret, he cannot _beg._

But he does. He pretends that they needs his help. He tries to make him care for their cause. He follows him in the loft he’s staying and sits cross-legged on the wooden, dusty floor, listening to the nostalgic notes as he tenderly peeks the chords of his guitar. He sees his drawings. Accidentally. Grantaire loses the ground under his feet but Enjolras pulls him into his arms and presses his lips against his own. They feel so warm and smooth and he kisses him passionately, throwing his fingers through his wild, dark curls and pulling him closer, pressing their bodies together.

Grantaire collapses. Grantaire’s voice comes out hoarse. Grantaire sends him away.

He obeys. He leaves. He waits.

And one day, he asks Grantaire to draw him.

The drunk man looks up from behind his bottle, dark circles under numb, empty blue eyes. “Quit mocking me,” he croaks.

“I never would. I’m pleading you.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. I know you can.”

“I can’t. My art has abandoned me long ago. I don’t believe in it. I don’t believe in anything.”

“You believe in me.”

Their eyes lock for an instant and Grantaire knows, Grantaire remembers. Apollo is lying naked before him, uncovered and revealed for the very first time, and Icarus’ fingers are ravishing the paper as the pencil scratches it orgasmically, in the quest of getting rid of his wings because with him, he can fly without them.

“It’s beautiful,” whispers Enjolras when it’s finished, his fingertips trailing upon every curve, every shadow, every line of his body entrapped on the paper, then coming to rest on Grantaire’s own callused ones. “You’re beautiful.”

The dark haired man throws himself up, turning around. “Let me die,” he begs quietly, not knowing whom he’s addressing, a God he doesn’t believe in, Enjolras himself, or thin air. “I’m begging you, set me free.”

He feels Enjolras’ fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist. “Permit me,” he feels a whisper brushing softly against his ear.

“I can’t. I need to stop this. I can’t lose you again.”

Enjolras holds his wrists tightly from the back and rests his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder. “You don’t have to. You only need to believe. You have to free yourself. I already believe. I had always been free.”

“You believe in everything,” says Grantaire hoarsely.

Enjolras forces him to turn around and face him. “I believe in you. Will you let me help you believe in yourself?”

Grantaire’s clothes soon meet with Enjolras’ on the floor. Their touches are tender in the beginning, soft, gentle, only then they realize that it’s the first time they find themselves in France _again,_ it’s the reassuring warmth of familiarity, the already existent flame which burns in their hearts, soon growing fiercer and filling their bodies with passion for freedom, for love, for revolution, but most of all it is passion for life, they have never felt more alive and they know that this time it is different, causing their kisses to grow harsher, teeth to clash and tongues to struggle together, breathing growing ragged and lips swollen.

They collapse on the bed, limbs tangled around the white sheets, bodies curled together, hearts beating in unison, the sweetest intoxication in the complete absence of alcohol having prevailed upon them.

“I was born to follow you,” whispers Grantaire, his head resting on Enjolras’ chest, feeling the heartbeat which is more real than ever. “Will you permit me?”

Apollo’s fingers trace on his bare arm and finally reach for his own and they entangle together tightly, a thumb rubbing softly his bruised knuckles, a distant pulse being shared. “You will always follow me. We shall never fall, as we will be standing together,” he breathes.

And this time, their hands clasp so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark.

For now, they will follow each other into the light.


End file.
